Brick By Boring Brick
by Nobdy'sMelody
Summary: Prequel to "Little Red' and "Adderall&Redbull." a Moment, a Love, a Dream, a Laugh, a Kiss, a Cry, our Rights, our Wrongs, everything before Scott was bitten, before Marie came home...
1. She Lives In A Fairytale

**EVERYONE!**

**HELLO! AND WELCOME! To the first chapter of "Brick By Boring Brick"!**

**This story is really happening because you'll understand Marie a lot more after reading this, why she acts the way she does. You'll also never read "Little Red" the same again.**

**We own nothing but Marie.**

**Here we go.**

Marie POV

There is a boy at the police station who can't be any older than me. He's all big brown eyes and smiles and he asks Derek why he looks so sour. "My parents just died," my cousin answers, turning away. The boy's already wide eyes widen and his lips pull apart. He apologizes, but Derek ignores him, tugging me along to find Laura.

I look over my shoulder at the boy and he waves to me, doe eyes sad, pitying.

I turn away.

* * *

><p>"Why can't I remember what happened that night?"<p>

Derek says to do what they say, to speak to this man. He says Daddy's in the hospital and everyone else is gone. He says that, once Laura is eighteen, we'll all live together and everything will be better. But the people at the orphanage brought me here.

The Home for Peculiar Children isn't a home. It's an asylum.

The people from the orphanage want us looked at before they take me and my cousins in with the other children. We're older, ten to sixteen, so its just a rest stop before my cousin Laura is eighteen and can accept custody of me and Derek.

I hug Luke, my new stuffed turtle, against me. Luke is why I'm alive. If Derek hadn't taken me out to get Luke because he broke my doll, I would probably be dead.

If I close my eyes, this will all go away. I will not be in this cold room with a man who smells like a strange mix of fear and authority. I will be in the clearing outside my house, playing with Derek and Laura and Daddy and Auntie and Uncle. I will be wherever Far, Far Away is, wherever you find Once Upon A Time, where the princesses live.

I close my eyes.

"You lost your family in a fire- Marie, that's not such a bad thing to forget."

But I can hardly hear him anymore. What I'm imagining- I control this world.

* * *

><p>I sit on my bed, simply. The other children don't come near me, but I don't mind. They're afraid of me. I'm twelve years old, but Derek and Laura haven't come for me. I brush the top of Luke's turtle head, staring blankly at my bedspread. It's pink.<p>

The servants- that's what they are, servants, even if they call themselves orderlies -allowed me to have my own room, with my own pink bed and my own bathroom with my own mirror. I heard one of them call me a demon doll after I'd accidentally shown my true nature to him, with glowing wolfish eyes and sharp fangs.

But I'm not a demon doll. I'm a princess locked in a tower.

* * *

><p>There's a boy here and maybe he can be my prince. I can see him outside, when he's with the other patients- peasants -and I think he's pretty. He can't be much more than fifteen to my thirteen and he has sparkling green eyes. I think I could maybe be getting a crush.<p>

But then I remember my real prince, the one who will come, and his first crush. I can see her eyes, green or blue or brown- I can never be sure -and they reflect flames back at me. I can hear people screaming and the flames flickering as they're reflected like her eyes are a mirror, a horrible savage image..

I close the window and turn away.

* * *

><p>I'm fourteen and I can't take it anymore. No one has come for me. My prince will not show up and carry me off into the sunset. I beg the orderlies- servants -to let me do it, please, even though begging is not something a princess should do. I brush my dark curls for the last time, flashes of people with the same hair or eyes as me making me stop, pause, and then dunk my head in the cold bucket of water.<p>

* * *

><p>I have a crown, a tiara. The orderlies- servants -let me have it because all I want to do is wear it and look in the mirror. Sometimes, I go to lavish balls with dresses and princes and dancing- or is that all a dream? When I wake up in the morning after what the orderlies- servants -tell me are dreams, my feet hurt from dancing and I can still feel the warmth of a lord's hand in mine, the brush of the fabric of my dress against my legs.<p>

The orderlies- servants -tell me that, at fifteen, I'm really too old to think I'm a Disney princess.

I tell them I am a princess and what is Disney and then I break into song.

* * *

><p>One of the orderlies- servants -wakes me up. I sit at the end of my bed while she braids my bright red hair. She brought two red velvet cupcakes to my room, one for me and one for Luke. She's fond of me and I guess I like her, too. But she might just pity me, the poor Rapunzel. "Happy birthday," she reminds me and I smile, though I want to cry.<p>

I'm sixteen now. And I'm still stuck in the tower.

* * *

><p>I've escaped, but it's raining. I'm sitting in a black car, driving away from The Home for Peculiar Children. I touch my nose to Luke's. My bags are in the trunk. My hair that I let down is red. The prince has come for me. I'm free.<p>

But the spell is broken.

"Marie?" he says.

I don't look over to him, drawing my knees to my chest.

"Marie?" he tries.

"Six years," I whisper, but I know he can hear me. "And you never came for me."

"Marie-"

"Six years," I whimper, tears filling my eyes, "in a _mental asylum _and you never once came for me." I bite my lip. "Six years of doctors and patients and lock-down, six years of fooling myself. And you never came for me."

"Marie..."

He takes his hand off the steering wheel, trying to hold mine, but I pull away, "Derek, don't."

We pull into a clearing and something inside my mind starts to fight its way to the surface. The prince-but-not-the-prince puts his arm around my shoulders and takes me into a burnt, charred house. I stare around, amazed, head spinning.

Memories come flooding back.

**That's all for now.**

**This is really just the intro, i think I'll add more chapters later. That is, if you guys want any. They probably won't be like this. They'll be more the memories that are flooding back.**

**Let me know if I should continue with this.**

**I hope you liked it.**

**Reviews are love : )**


	2. Someday My Prince Will Come

**EVERYONE!**

**We're going to elaborate on the memories of the asylum first , two per chapter, and then get into her memories before the fire. Memories will not be in chronological order.**

**Also, a very happy (very late) birthday to my Teen Wolf pal, Amanda, because she helps me with these stories and keeps me on track. Thanks for putting up with me and my spaztic brain!**

**Here we go.**

Marie POV

I pull my brush through my dark curls. The mirror allows me the joy of looking at myself as I twist a shiny strand around my finger. I pout, wondering if my prince has dark hair. I vaguely remember a boy with dark hair and blue eyes. Another flash of memory of a royally dressed man with black hair and blue eyes hits me so hard that I stagger backwards, clutching my forehead.

The servant attending to me at the moment- a sweet old woman -rushes over, helping me to my bed. I sit on the pink duvet, eyes closed.

I remember the princely character. He lives in a palace by the sea. He has a big dog. Sometimes he dresses more like a sailor than a prince, but he's still beautiful. He plays some kind of flute-like instrument. His servants are very kind to him; they love him, unlike mine.

Picturing his princess, the one he loves and fights for and protects, I see a long, streaming mane of red hair, cherry red, red-velvet red. She has big blue eyes, just like mine. She's eager, dancing around, pulling a fork through her hair like it's a brush.

"Are you alright?"

I open my eyes. My servant is staring at me as if I'll explode. I frown. The blue-eyed, black-haired prince loves the cherry-haired girl. He fights for her, keeps her safe, takes her away from what she doesn't want.

My prince looks like him. Same hair, same eyes. My prince hadn't come for me yet. He hasn't come for me, hasn't come for his princess away in a tower, his princess with dark hair.

"Red."

The servant's eyebrows furrow, "Excuse me?"  
>"Red." I touch my hair, my dark hair. "I need red hair. Red hair dye." I meet the servant's eyes. "Can you get me it? I need it." I grab my colored pencils, drawing out the brightest red and scribbling on a sheet of paper. "Like this. Like cherries. Like red velvet cupcakes."<p>

The servant sighs, "Sweet-pea, you're distraught. You shouldn't make rash decisions."

"No, I need it!" I stand. "I need it! Don't you understand? He won't come, he won't come if I don't! I need it! You have to get it for me!"

"Who won't come?"

A growl rumbles in my chest. "My prince! If I'm not like the princess, he won't come and get me out of here. I need red hair dye."

"You're here for a reason," the servant makes me sit. "You have to stay here for a reason. A prince isn't coming to get you out. Who do you think you-"

I interupt, "I'm the princess, remember?"

"You don't need the dye."

"Yes, I do!" I struggle against her, wanting to leap to my feet. "If I look like the princess, he'll come for me and I'll be free."

"If you do not sit still you will be tied down!" the servant threatens. I look up, eyes flashing, fangs elongated, hissing. She jumps back and the wolf fades back into my skin, hides under the surface once again.

"Please," I beg, even though princesses shouldn't beg.

A week later, my hair is cherry red and I smile into the mirror. I look like the princess now and my prince will surely come for me.

* * *

><p><em>2 years later<em>

_"Someday my prince will come,_

_someday we'll meet again,_

_and away to his castle we'll go,_

_to be happy forever, I know..."_

I'm singing to my mirror, running my fingers through my red hair, when the door opens and two servants rush in. One is young and the other is old. They begin packing my things quickly and I frown. "What are you doing?"

The elder pushes Luke into my hands and pulls me towards the door, the younger trailing behind with my bags. The old servant looks at me, her voice mocking, "Your prince finally came to save you."

They lead me down stairs and through hallways and this doesn't look like a castle. It looks like a prison, but why would I be in a prison? They lead me to the lobby and a man turns around to face us, leaning against the front desk.

There's a sign on the desk that says _Home for Peculiar Children _and another that says _Asylum for Clinically Insane_ but I can ignore them because the man in front of me has black hair and I somehow know his eyes glow blue and I'm staring at my prince.

I smile and somehow know his name: "Derek?"

"Come on, Marie," he smirks. "Ready to go home?"

"Sir, I must warn you," a long, thin man behind the desk says, "She is not cured. There isn't a cure for insanity."

Insanity? I'm angry. How dare he? I'm not insane! And then I realize what the signs mean and why this place looks like a prison. This isn't a castle; I'm not a princess. This is a mental asylum; I'm a patient. The peasants...they're patients, too. The servants are really doctors, orderlies.

Reality crashes around me.

I'm sixteen. I've been here for six years. My family died in a fire that destroyed our home. I've been fooling myself, living in my mind, for six years. I've been living in a gilded cage. pretending I'm a princess in a tower to cope with the reality that I'm a patient in a mental institution.

I've been locked up like Quasimodo, a freak.

Derek reaches for me, but I draw back. He's not a prince, I'm not a princess. This is real life, not a fairytale, and he's my cousin who is checking me out of an asylum. The man I've believed to be my prince, who would hold me and protect me and love me, isn't. My chest feels tight, too tight, and I press my hand to the hollow of my throat, swaying.

My cousin grabs me, steadying me, pulling me against his chest. I hear his heartbeat and I can breathe again, the calming sense of family, of pack, washing over me. Everything feels lighter, like there's a glow in me. _It almost feels like Heaven's light, _I think to myself. "Let's get you out of here," he says and I nod.

He loads my things into his car as I sit in the passenger seat. Luke the Turtle is on my lap when Derek climbs in the driver's side. He reaches over and takes a strand of red hair in his fingers, looking at me thoughtfully. "You dyed your hair." I nod. "I like it it suits you." We sit in silence until he says, "It's very red."

We sit in his car and he explains how hard he worked to get me out, how happy he is to have me with him again. He tells me that Laura is gone, dead, and my Daddy is still in the hospital, badly burned and better off dead. I listen as he speaks of a new wolf named Scott, a pup we must care for.

He starts the car and I press my forehead against the cold window. It's raining.

Everything is confusing as I try to sort between imagination and reality. I start to think reality is as much of a prison as my mind.

**So, yeah, there's two memories of the asylum for you all to ponder.**

**In the beginning of the second memory, Marie is singing "Someday My Prince Will Come" from Snow White & The Seven Dwarfs. She also has a thought and giggles to herself- the thought is from "Heaven's Light" From The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but twisted slightly to fit the situation.**

**Yes, Marie figured Derek was her prince, as he was always the boy who was there for her through everything, the one she trusted and loved dearly as a child. But, you all know she meets her real prince later, right? :)**

**Reviews are love: )**


	3. Once Upon A Dream

**Hey, guys! **

**I'm so excited to see you all again!**

**I've decided that, since Little Red and Adderall&Redbull are over, I should get to work on my prequel, Brick By Borning Brick. It will focus on their childhoods- everyone from Marie and Derek to Scott and Stiles to Lydia and Jackson and Danny. ****As you can tell, the first two chapters are all about Marie, but- don't worry -they won't all be about her. I have one for Stiles and one for Scott in the making. **

**I'm really excited to start this and get back on track, so here's the discaimer:**

**I don't own Teen Wolf**

**and, let's go!**

The little girl, pretty little thing, silly little thing, with her dark curls grazing her shoulders and big bue eyes shining bright, walked, pulling the moon on a string behind her.

The floors were marble, fancy, glinting as the light from candles bounced off the surface. Her feet were bare and the tiles were cold. The place was beautiful, proper and regal, white and gold trimming, a palace. The girl blinked, long and dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks, staring around, petal pink lips parted. She stepped to a door, a large golden door, and pressed her hands against it. It opened, widening and gaping like a large, shining mouth. She stepped into the room.

The moon followed behind her.

There were people there, of course, and they're having a ball, wearing masks. They danced around, men holding women close, fancy dresses gliding over the floor.

The little girl smiled, showing her teeth, and bounded into the crowd, dancing along with everyone. She moved as if she had an invisible partner, dark curls whipping around as she twirled. She laughed and grinned and danced with the grown-ups, staring up at them and their intricate masks like they were the sunlight.

And, suddenly, a man was in front of her. The face of a wolf concealing his identity, he handed her a flower, bowing low. His dark brown hair looked fluffy, like cotton candy, and he met her eyes, his a starling mix of green and blue. She allowed him to lift her into his arms, allowed him to hold her against him, his arms under her body, and he began to dance with the others again, holding the girl to him and moving with the crowd.

She wrapped her little arms around his neck, staring into the man's interesting eyes, the only visible aspect of his face under his wolfish mask. She grinned as they twirled together, Father and Daughter, laughing with the others.

But, suddenly, his face began to blacken and peices began to fall away like dust, like ash, like burnt wood. She gasped and watched in abject horror as the man crumbled to nothing, blown away by a wind she could not feel. She was dropped to the floor, as there was nothing to support her, no arms to hold her up anymore.

And the floor she had crashed against was not marble; it was wood, charred and creaking wood. She stared around. The light and magnifigence of the palace no longer existed. The walls were dark and burnt. Shadows were bouncing around in the corners.

Scared, the pretty little thing, the silly little thing, the poor thing, began to cry.

The people stopped dancing, gathering around the little girl. Their masks were no longer fantastic, shining, and beautiful. There were no birds, no foxes, no array of animals. Every dancer wore a wolf-like mask, threads loose, fabric burnt and decayed.

Waterworks poured from her eyes. She sniffled and stared up at them, tormented.

They laughed, thinking her dumb, daft, silly, foolish. They laughed loudly, closing in around her, cackling as she shook with tears. They got closer, their masks blurring as she looked around at all of them, curls whipping around. Hands reached for her. She screamed.

Her scream died out, echoing. No one else was there- the dancers, mockers, were gone. She sat alone on the wood floor, surrounded by ashes. The poor thing wiped under her big blue eyes, staring around.

_"Marie?"_ came a sing-song voice, a terrible, mocking voice, from down the hall. "_Where are you now?"_

The poor thing stiffened. She watched the shadowy figure come closer, strutting slowly down the burnt wood floors toward her. The figure flicked a lighter on and off, so fast that the poor thing never got a glimpse of its face until it was right in front of her.

It was a woman, maybe ten or more years her senior, with ashy blonde curls and a cruel smirk, holding the lighter under her chin like a child holding a flashlight while telling a ghost story.

The woman picked the poor thing up in her arms, setting her on a cripsy settee. The woman reached out and brushed a hand through the poor thing's dark curls, tucking them behind the pretty little thing's small seashell of an ear, smirking all the while.

The poor thing trembled, knowing something bad was going to happen.

_"Nothing's gonna harm you," _The woman pressed her cold fingers against the poor thing's rosy cheek, free hand playing with the lighter, on, off, on, off, bright fire, darkness, bright fire, darkness. Her smirk widened as she flicked the lighter on. _"Not while I'm around."_

The poor thing heard other footsteps, the heavy footsteps of a boy becoming a man, but that was irrelevant, for the lighter was pressed against her dress, her dress was on fire, she was on fire, she was burning. Her curls were smoking and the woman was laughing, cackling, smiling, like this was some wonderful play.

The little girl, the poor thing, screamed, closing her eyes.

Something grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. She bolted awake in bed, breathing heavy. An elderly, kind _servant_ was sitting beside her, watching her with wide eyes. "Miss Marie, are you alright?"

The little girl, the poor thing, Marie, pressed her hand to the hollow of her throat, a very womanly gesture for a girl of ten and three quarters, thank you very much. She shook her head.

"Oh, Miss Marie," the elderly servant ran her hand through the poor thing's hair, "it was only a nightmare." She pressed the little girl against the pillows and pressed a damp cloth to the girl's forehead. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

So the poor thing did, every single detail. She looked to the eldery servant and questioned, "Do you think she lived? Tell me how it ends. And don't lie."

"Lie? No, I'll never lie," the woman assured the poor thing. "Don't worry, Miss Marie, the little girl in your dream lived."

"Really?"

"Yes, she lived, but it left her weak, it messed with her head."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Miss Marie," she brought the blankets up around the little girl's shoulders, "now lie there and sleep, darling. It was just a nightmare."

So the poor thing closed her eyes and slept.

**Sooooo?  
>How did I do?<strong>

**I haven't written anything since Adderall&Redbull ended. I've gotta get back into the groove of this, I've gotta feel it out, so what you guys think would mean the world to me.**

**In case you can't tell, most of this was a dream Marie had while in the asylum. Also, I used a line from "Not While I'm Around," which is just about the sweetest song ever, from the movie Sweeney Todd.**

**Reviews are love, hate, and everyting in between:)**


	4. Christmas Wishes

**Hey, guys!**

**How has every one been? What's everyone been up to? What's the 411? What are the cool jams?**

**Excuse my Regina-George's-Mom moment there.**

**Anyway, I'm super sorry I haven't updated, but I'm trying to make it all better.**

**Since the holidays are coming up very very soon- oh, my, only a week 'til Christmas and I still haven't bought one gift? -I figured I'd treat you all with a little chapter. Well, at leats, I think it's a treat. I hope you do, too.**

**Thanks for all the reviews I got on the last chapter, and for all my Teen Wolf stories in general. They seriously make my heart melt like chocolate over a fire or ice cream in the summer. **

**I do not own Teen Wolf, by the way.**

Sheriff POV

Stiles has been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. He is nine years old and I'm getting a little annoyed with my son. We were supposed to leave for his classes' Christmas party ten minutes ago. I'm about to knock on the door when I think _screw it _and push against the wood.

His face hasn't lost all its baby fat, but he's always been a small, slim child. He is staring into the mirror. "Hey, there, pretty lady," he says and for a second I think he is trying to build up his self-esteem and I get a bit worried. "What's going on, baby?" I raise my eyebrows, realizing he's practicing flirting. I smile. "Hey, Lydia Martin..."

"Stiles, little man," I hate to interrupt and he jumps away from the sink as if it has burned him. "We have to go." He nods and smiles weakly, running past me out the door. I want to laugh; he's growing up so fast, even if it might be a little soon for him to be flirting with girls. I begin to make my way down the steps.

"Come on, Dad!"

I smile.

* * *

><p>The chair I'm sitting in is too low to the ground to be comfortable. The cup of punch in my hand is about the size of the ones I used to wash my mouth out with when I was little; it has snowmen on it. The children are laughing and giggling, though I don't have the slightest idea what's so funny to all of them. One parent is complaing that not everybody celebrates Christmas and, when asked if they do, replies that of course they do, but not everybody does. My wife is talking to a woman named Mellissa- she's the mother of the only child who will willingly talk to my own.<p>

A big, burly man sits beside me, a reindeer punch cup in his large hands. He nods a greeting to me, taking a sip of the red liqiud. He holds out his beefy hand, "Scott McCall's dad."

"Stiles' dad," I shake his hand.

"Stiles?" his eyebrows furrow and I point out my son. I don't know why he doesn't know my child when I know his- my son's been over his house at least once a week for a couple years. Stiles has a buzz cut because he doesn't like his hair in his face and he's currently shoving a mountain of frosted cookies into his mouth. Scott, with dark brown hair that flops over his forehead, is doing the same, like it's some kind of contest. "Oh, Scott's friend."

I nod, sipping my drink. If I actually take a normal-sized gulp, like a would if I had a normal-sized glass, my entire cup will be gone.

"Stiles is one hell of a name," he informs me.

I shrug, "That's not actually his name. It's just what he likes to be called."

He lifts his shoulders and we watch our sons in silence. Stiles has made Scott laugh so hard that milk has come out of his nose. A little girl with strawberry blonde braids skips past, right up between them, grabs a cookie off the table, gives them both a confident smile, and skips away. My son follows her with his eyes, cookie crumbs dropping off his chin and littering his green T-shirt. I assume she is Lydia Martin.

Mr. McCall laughs at my son's dumbfounded expression and I find myself joining in. Another man sits down beside me and our laughs trail off as we turn to look at him. "Well," the man fixes his shirt, "this is a lot of fun." He grins at us. "Jackson Whittemore's dad."

We don't seem too keen on giving our actual names, only our positions at the party, why we're sitting in these little chairs.

I know the name Jackson Whittemore; he's the little ass that gives my son a hard time. All the same, I smile and say, "Stiles' dad." I am not going to start anything. Stiles would want to take care of his own probelms by himself. I listen as Scott's dad introduces himself.

We point out our children and see that Jackson is making his way towards them. He's a good-looking child, with spiked blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. He slinks up to them, a tanned boy at his side. The other boy looks wary, like he's thinking them shouldn't try to cause probelms by going up to Scott and Stiles.

The blonde boy goes up to them with a confident smirk on his face. He is a ringleader, I can tell. He takes the cookies right out of my son's hand and grins, I see his lips form the word "Thanks." My son watches, lips pressed togetehr in a thin line as he goes to take a huge bite, and-

The little girls with braids is there again, snatching the cookie away from Jackson Whittemore. She grins, taks a bite, closes her eyes like _yum_ and smirks. "Thanks," she says, but not to Jackson. She looks at my son and thanks him for the cookie, as if she knows Jackson is being a complete asshole. My son nods, suddenly mute, and she skips away.

Scott McCall smiles cockily at Jackson, like _ha. _The unnamed tan boy tugs on Jackson's arm, obviously pleading to leave, to go do something else. Of course, that doesn't fly and Jackson yanks away, knocking Stiles' cup to the ground. His punch splatters all over my son's front, down his new shirt and pants. All four boys stand there, mouths open, silent, until Jackson laughs, laughs so hard he has to hold his stomach.

And, of course, my son takes a swing.

Jackson's father and I are one our feet in a second. The boys are grabbing for each other, but we're holding them apart. Everyone is staring. The tan boy is tugged away by his mother, out of the fray with a sharp "Come away, Danny," and Scott's father is hoisting him over his shoulder because the boy is struggling, fighting to be able to have his feet on the ground and stand up for his best friend.

"Stiles, stop it," I order quietly into his ear. The little girl with the braids has pushed her way to the front of the crowd to better see the fight. "Stiles, calm down right now." He doesn't listen. "Genim Stilinski, you stop it right now or I'll-" He's stopped struggling. I let him go and step away.

Jackson has stopped fighting, but his father still holds his shoulders in a tight grip. The boys glare at each other, Jackson raising his pale eyebrows like dare; Stiles sticks out his tongue. "And that, my dear children," the teacher says, trying to ease the tension that is hovering in the roon like a blinding fog, "is exactly what happens at the climax of the book we're reading. Who wants to tell me what the climax of a story is?"

The other children rush over, eager to show off their smarts, jumping up and down to answer the question. "We are going home right now, young man," Jackson's father is scolding, "and we're taking some of your presents back to the store. You've embarassed the entire family."

"Whatever," Jackson growls, "it's not like you're my real dad." The blonde boy storms out, followed quickly by the tan boy- Danny? -who runs after him, calling out his friend's name.

Scott is put back down on the ground and grabs napkins, trying to help Stiles' dry his shirt and pants. "It's hopeless," my son complains, pushing his friend's hands away. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and turns to me, "Can we go home now, Dad?"

I nod and, as we're making our way out, I see a distraught Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore. "Merry frickin' Christmas," I mutter.

* * *

><p>Christmas morning is a mess of wrapping paper and boxes. Stiles insits we open every single one of his toys and I spend three hours trying to get all of the hooks and traps undone so the toy can be free from its box. They pack those things in like it's a matter of national security.<p>

As I spend all my time doing this, my son is aborbed in the Harry Potter book Santa brought and one of his Star Wars movies plays in the background. The open toys are scattered around him, untouched, eyes glued to the page as he twirls a candy cane in his mug of hot chocolate. HIs lips is stained by the sweet drink and the mustache does wonders for his face.

The door bell rings and my wife scurries to get it. The McCalls are there, minus the father, and Scott has a present in his arms. The boy smiles, "Merry Christmas, Stiles!"

My son jumps up, marking his page, and runs to the tree to capture Scott's present. The sit on the floor and trade, watching each other as if silently counting down in their heads or communicating telepathically. They rip off the wrapping paper at the same time. They both gasp, grin, and hug each other, tearing their presents out of the boxes.

Stiles has recieved a Darth Vader helment, which he puts on immediately. In turn, he has given Scott a new lacrosse stick and Scott seems so very excited that he might explode. I tel them to put their boots on and we can go play in the backyard, so they do. Stiles refuses to take the Darth Vader helment off, but plays lacrosse with us all the same, saying that it's better than a lacrosse helemtn because can a lacrosse helment change your voice when you talk?

No, he didn't think so. So, _ha. _

Melissa and Scott stay all day and eat dinner with us. We play lacrosse in the yard even after it's dark. When we come inside, hot chocolate is waiting for us and we all snuggle up on the couch to watch _A Christmas Story. _This is Stiles' favorite Christmas movie and he laughs all the way through. He looks up at me, "Dad, if he didn't say fudge, what did he say?" He asks this every year and I never give him an answer- he'll figure it out on his own one day.

When they leave, Scott looks up at me and smile, huggin me around the waist. I'm not used to hugs from a child other than my own, so this suprises me. "Thanks for playing lacrosse with me," he says. "It was so much fun! My dad never does stuff like that with me!" He is smiling wide, happy, and I know he isn't trying to make me feel bad for him, but I do all the same.

I tuck Stiles into bed, kissing his forehead. He usually wipes at the kiss- he's too old to be kissed good night, he says - but tonight he just grins and tells me he loves me. "Ditto," I reply and go to leave the room.

"Dad?" he says as I'm about to shut the door. I turn to look at him. He smiles from under the blanket. "Merry Christmas."

**So, yeah, that's it.**

**As I said, I'm so sorry I haven't updated, but my computer's screwed up. I'm typing on my parents' computer whenever I get the chance, which isn't too often because I'm not supposed to be on FanFiction on their computer. So I'm sneaking on, shhh!**

**Anyway, I hoped you all liked my little holiday chapter. I figured it's just about that time, so why not? :)**

**Reviews are better than presents!**

**Happy holidays! :D**


	5. Resolutions

**Hiiiiiiiii, guuuuuuuyyyyssss!**

**How are we all doing on this fine New Year's Eve?**

Laura POV

New Years has always been a rather big thing in our family. It's a time to really step back and look at yourself and decide if you want to change anything- which of course you do because we can always improve. Every year we watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ until we switch channels and watch this sparkly ball drop all the way across the country.

"So, Laura, what do you want to change this year?"

We're all quiet. Derek traces a crack in the table with his nail. Marie sits on her father's lap, playing with her doll, not listening to the family conference.

"I want Derek to stop hanging out with that girl in the woods," I say.

His head shoots up, eyes glazing through me. "Laura!" Everyone turns to look at him- "Derek?" -and he glares at me. I square my shoulders. Marie doesn't look up from her doll, but answers:

"You do. I hear you talking."

His glare focuses on her. She draws back against Peter's chest. "Unless you didn't want me to. Then all I heard was pretty music."

"They asked what I wanted to change and I want it to change. I think it's weird," I explain.

"Why? Is it so weird that someone wants to talk to me?"

"No, it's weird that she's, like, twenty years old!"

"Oh, Derek, honey, that sounds a little strange," Mom interjects.

"Mom, she's not a bad person. She just likes to hike through the woods..."

"No one hikes through the woods to hang out with a fourteen-year-old when the snow is up to your knees!" I protest.

"-and she gets a little lost-" he continues as if I haven't spoken.

"Why do you always defend her?" I cut across him.

"Because no one else will!" he stands.

I move to my feet, too. "Derek, get a reality check. You're fourteen. There's no way a full-grown woman finds you interesting. There's something not right about her."

"Derek," my dad decides it's time to intervine, "maybe it would be best to stay away from this woman."

"What do you want?" my brother's face is contorted with fury and sadness. "Do you want me to choose to have no friends?"

Marie gives him a weak smile, "I'll be your friend."

"Of course we want you to have friends, sweetie," Mom tries, "but this woman seems a bit strange-"

"She's just a girl!"

"Derek!" Dad scolds him for yelling at our mother. My brother's chest is heaving, eyes darting around like he's a caged animal looking for escape. "That's it- go to your room."

"Fine, I don't want to be near you anyway!" the boy storms away, feet stomping up the stairs. We all hear is muttered curses. Peter covers Marie's ears, not that it blocks out her cousin's voice; she stares around at everyone, hoping there won't be anymore fighting.

"And," my father yells up the stairs after him, "I forbid you to see that woman."

"Dad-!" my brother begins to protest.

"Not another word!"

Derek's face hardens. "Fine- how about three? I _hate_ you!"

Dad's shoulders stiffen; he cracks his neck, takes a deep breath. Turning back around, he gives us a smile and crouches down beside Marie. "Sweetie, you want to tell me what you know about this woman?"

She glances at the stairs, where Derek had been only moments ago, and back to my father. She shakes her head.

"Tell us, won't you?" Peter urges, brushing back her raven curls. She chews her lip, resolve crumbling. Derek may be her favorite person in the world, but the people who feed her and play with her and dress her and make sure she has her every heart's desire want her to rat him out. I smile softly and kneel beside my father:

"Marie, how about I get your dolls and we play out what you know about that lady?"

She shakes her head, "I'll tell you." We sit back to listen. "She's mean. Her laugh is like Jafar's and she mocks him. But Derek thinks it's playful, that she's flirting. Being near her must make him feel sick, but he doesn't mind because she talks to him."

Dad's eyebrows scrunch together. "Why would being near her make him sick?"

Marie stares at us with her big eyes and says, simply, "Because she smells like Wolfsbane."

"Wolfsbane?" I repeat.

"Reeks of it," my cousin confirms, proud to be able to tell us this. She is helping the grown-ups, being treated like a grown-up. She doesn't like this woman; this woman takes Derek's attention and time away.

Peter and my dad exchange a look and I can practically hear their thoughts: _Hunter?_

I can hear cheers coming from the television. The ball has dropped. But, suddenly, the New Year doesn't seem so great.

From upstairs, Derek's angry voice calls down: "Happy frickin' New Year."

**Happy NEw Year, guys!**

**Is it 2012 for you yet? We still have a few hours left here. Amanda and I are partying it up with our notebook of Teen Wolf ideas and the brilliance that is Holmes & Watson. Speaking of Watson's, I heard Emma Watson was voted most beautiful face of 2011. **

**Anyway, we just wanted to say a special thank you (and goodbye) to 2011, because it was in this year that we wrote out all of these stories and heard from all of your readers and drooled over the perfection that is Teen Wolf. And, you know, the last Harry Potter came out, which was AMAZING, and Pottermore, and the new Heroes of Olympus books, and the second Sherlock Holmes movie- okay, Jude Law does not look 39 -, and Jessie started on Disney Channel- it's a shame Cameron Boyce is 12 -, and Mayday Parade launched a new CD, which is awesome by the way, and Hunter Hayes, and I can't think of much else even though a whole bunch of stuff happened. Oh, and I used a credit card for the first time.**

**So, goodbye, 2011, hello, 2012!**

**Let's ring out the New Year- which, apparently, might be our "last" -and I hope you all enjoyed this.**

**Yes, "the woman" was Kate.**

**Reviews are like sparkling cider- they made me giddy!**


	6. The Worst Thing A Human Can Be

**Heeeeeyyyy guuuuuyyyyssss!**

**How's 2012 treating you? Anyone seen the new Sherlock Holmes yet? We're dying to. Heard Mary dies, waiting to see if it's true or not, if Watson's left single again;) **

**Anywho.**

**Here's another installment. We hope you like it!**

**We don't own Teen Wolf, as much as we would love to.**

"Is 'fat' really the worst thing a human being can be? Is 'fat' worse than 'vindictive,' 'jealous,' 'shallow,' 'vain,' 'boring,' or 'cruel'?"

-J.K. Rowling

Lydia POV

I plopped down beside Danny, dropping my tray onto the table. Jackson looked up from across the table. From the table behind Jackson, some boy with big brown eyes sighed, then turned to his friend and chattered away while stuffing his face. I played absentmindedly with a curl of my hair as I tried to remember if my Physical Science- AP, of course -teacher was giving a test today or tomorrow.

Whatever. I shrugged, reaching for the cake on my tray, sliding it closer. I'd deal with it later.

"Are you seriously gonna eat all that?" Jackson gestured to my tray. I stared at him, blinking, and glanced back down at my tray. Cafeteria grilled chicken wrap, bag of Lay's chips, cake, and ginger ale. "I mean, that's kind of a lot of food. You're gonna get fat."

I dropped my fork. Danny swallowed and licked his lips, setting his sandwhich down. "Jackson-" his tone was a warning.

"It's just, I noticed that you're buying that every day and I don't want you getting all fat and gross," Jackson explained. "We wouldn't really be able to, y'know, go out, then, and I'd hate to do that."

"Jackson!" Danny exclaimed. I pushed my tray away.

"What?" the blonde haired boy turned to his friend. "I'm just trying to help."

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say."

"No," I pursed my lips in an almost-smile, "it's fine. I wasn't that hungry anyway. That abomination of a lunchlady forced all this food on me. She's all 'growing girls need to eat.' Ha, I think she missed the part where we don't need to eat as much as a wolf pack."

Jackson smiled- no, smirked -and leaned across the table to give me a kiss. "That's my girl."

* * *

><p>"Lydia," Danny complained from outside my bathroom door. "Come <em>on<em>. We're gonna be late. You do realize I'm playing in this game, right?"

I smirked into the mirror, running my hands through my strawberry blonde curls. I leaned over the sink, glossy lips parting as I applied another coat of mascara to my lashes, making them long and dark. Pressing a petal pink nail to my rosy cheek, I called back, "I'll be done in a second."

Fluffing my hair one last time, I emerged from the bathroom, victorious in my quest to look absolutely perfect. "Ta-da!" I spun for my friend. "How do I look?"

"You look great. Let's go," he grabbed my hand, tugging me down the hallway.

I stopped, digging my heels into the carpet, pouting. "You didn't even look."

"God, you are so vain!" he spun around, impatient, but there was a slight smile on his face because he knew that he loved everything about me, even my obsession with my looks. His eyes scanned me up and down. "Lydia, you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. If I was straight, Jackson would have to worry about me coming over here all the time."

"Okay," I grinned, "we can go." Strutting past him, I opened the front door. "Well, are you coming, goalie? You _are_ playing in this game tonight, right?"

* * *

><p>"Honey, aren't you hungry?" my mom asked. I picked at my salad with a silver fork.<p>

I glanced up. "Not really."

"You should eat something- you're a growing girl."

"Mom, I've been five-three for the past two years; I don't think I'm growing much more."

My father chuckled. "That's my girl," he grinned, "always has a comeback."

"Comebacks aren't needed, _darling_." The snippy, sharp way my mother spoke as she folded her hands in front of her made the word sound like an insult. "I worked hard to make this meal and I'd like it if she ate it."

"She doesn't have to eat if she's not hungry, _sweetheart_." He placed his fork beside his plate. "And this isn't the best meal you've ever made."

They began to bicker back and forth.

"I'm just worried that she hasn't been eating."

"She's allowed to diet; maybe if _you_ went on a diet-"

I rolled my eyes, exasperated.

"Maybe both of you should stop eating!" I interrupted, standing up and throwing my napkin onto the table. "Then, you won't have enough energy to talk anymore and I won't have to listen to you complain or whine during your damn verbal brawl anymore. And then we can all hate each other in peace!"

My father coughed and my mother folded her hands again. "Lydia, no one here hates each other."

"Really?" I countered. "Because, right now, I hate both of you."

"That was a very _vindictive_ thing to say," my father scolded.

"Whatever," I rolled my eyes, like I would in school. I turned my back on the table and made for my room.

* * *

><p>"Okay, class, sit down," our Health teacher drawls as he walks into the room, the heavy door slamming behind him. I rolled my eyes, hopping off Jackson's desk and sliding into my seat. "Today, we'll be talking about anorexia."<p>

Danny looked pointedly in my direction. I flipped my hair over my shoulder, chewing on my painted nail to discreetly give him the finger.

The teacher droned on and on- he was boring and ugly and he spat when he spoke. I tapped my nails on the desk. Apparently, that made too much noise, because he threw me a look. I smirked at him, running my fingers through my hair instead.

"If you think a friend of your- or you yourself -is anorexic, make sure to get them help, or try to help them. You can very well die from it. In fact, one of my friends in high school was put in the hospital for malnutriton. Most of the time, they don't even realize they're skinny."

Danny coughed.

* * *

><p>"Lydia."<p>

A year later, Allsion leaned up the table to get my attention. I blinked at her. "What?"

"Eat something," she gestured to my tray. I looked down. Un-salted chips, of which I would only eat about four because they were nasty, salad with no dressing, thanks very much, and water. I gave her a look.

"Do you seriously think I can eat when someone was _mauled_ outside our school?" I pushed my tray away, folding my arms across my chest. "I wouldn't be able to stomach a bite."

Danny leaned across the table to whisper, "Lydia, eat something. Right now."

"I. Am. Not. Hungry."

"Lydia, it's salad. It's not like you're shoving Ding-Dongs in your mouth without taking off the foil!"

"Danny, cool off," Jackson jumped to my defense. "If she doesn't want to eat, she doesn't want to eat. She can eat when we go out tonight."

"This is not healthy," the goaltender hissed. "She's hardly eaten a thing for two days."

"She can hear you and it's not like she's doing anything wrong. She's just not damn hungry!"

I stood up. "Whatever. I have chemistry work to do." I pursed my lips. "See you later." I pressed a kiss to Jackson's cheek and strutted my way out of the cafeteria. Some girl slammed into me, almost knocking her tray of disgusting food all over my outfit. I growled, "Watch where you're going, fat ass!"

I collapsed onto a chair in the library, pulling out a chemistry book and trying to study- not that I needed to.

"You know," I looked up and there was the brown-eyed boy- Scott's friend, "you seem a bit boring, just studying. I was kind of hoping to see something scandolous."

I promtly gave him the finger.

He grinned, sat across from me, pulling out a lunch and eating. I watched the curly fries disappear into his mouth, licking my lips. Maybe I should've had some salad, at least some water. He noticed and winked. I looked down. "Hungry?" he wiggled one in front of my face.

I pushed his hand away, "Do you know how many calories are in just _one_ of those?"

He shook his head, "Nope." He popped it into his mouth.

"You'll get fat," I insisted.

"Nah," he said, "I've got a high metabolism."

"Lucky you," I sneered.

"Come on," he pushed some towards me, "I can't eat these all by myself." I shook my head. He shrugged. "Seems an awful waste, to throw all of these fries out." Pouting, he sighed.

"Don't pull the starving-kids-in-Africa-thing, either," I growled. "It won't work."

He raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't going to. It just seems such a shame."

"I'm not eating those. I will not consume all of those disgusting, pointless calories because you can't finish your own meal."

"Meaning, you won't eat it because you think you're fat even though we both know you're the most beautiful girl here, just because your boyfriend is an oblivious jerk."

My glossed mouth dropped open. He smiled, a cheesy, childish grin, and picked up a fry, wiggling it in front of my face.

"Come on," he insisted. "Just one."

I rolled my eyes and leaned forward, catching the fry in my mouth and sitting back in my chair as I chewed it. He rubbed my lipgloss into his finger. "There," I said. "Happy?"

He nodded. I smiled. He laughed, "There's a real smile. Maybe all hope's not lost."

Standing, he zipped his bag and shouldered it, turning. He skipped out of the library with a spring in his step, no swagger like Jackson or hesitation like Scott. I smiled at the ground and tugged the container of fries closer, twirling one between my fingers before eating it.

It tasted much sweeter than before.

**Sooooooo**

**yeah.**

**This one took a lot of hard work and sitting around going "what now?" or "what would she do now?" between Amanda and I, which is why this story hasn't been updated for 15 days. Sorry, but thee was a lot of procrastination and second-guessing if what we were writing was very "Lydia" or not. Anyway, we hope you all liked it! **

**Reviews are love, hate, and everything in between:)**


	7. Not Alone

**I have no words.**

**I am so so so so so so sorry I haven't been on.**

**I have a semi-valid excuse. My computer has been broken since January and we haven't had enough extra money to fix it.**

**I am so terribly sorry for not being on since January.**

**Since my mom is gone for a few hours, I'm sneaking on her computer and writing this because Teen Wolf Feels have been consuming me since the new season started and I...I just had to.**

**I'm a little out of the groove but maybe I can get back into it.**

**Here we go?**

Jackson POV

There's an old briefcase in the basement.

It's beaten up and smells a little musty. But, then, most of the basement is exactly like that.

I pick it up, staring at the worn brown leather. It can't be my father's; he would never own a briefcase like this. It sure as hell ins't my mother's. I look over my shoulder. "Dad?" He looks up, pushing a hand through his dark hair that is nothing like mine. I hold the briefcase up. "What is this?"

He comes over, a bit warily, takes the case from my hands. "This is, uh..." he falters. My father does not falter. He is a lawyer. He knows what to say and when to say it. He chews on his lip, watching me carefully. I wonder what about the case is making him so nervous, so unsure. I wonder if there's something in it, something that's his. I suddenly remember when Danny found a box of magizines- _those_ magizines -under his dad's bed and was grounded for a week under the pretense that twelve-year-olds shouldn't know about those things. Looking at my dad's face, I doubt that's what is in the case. The embarassment isn't about him.

It's about me.

He opens it, slides out some papers. "Here." He places them in my hands. He taps the top, a picture. "That's, uh, that's your father."

I see a woman in the photo, too. "Is that my mom?"

"Yes. Those are...well, those are your parents."

I don't bother excusing myself. He doesn't expect me to. I make my way to my room, slowly, never taking my eyes from the pile of papers in my hands. Kicking my lacrosse stick to the side, I sit on the cold hardwood floor of my bedroom.

I stare at the man in the photo greedily. This is what I've wanted. This is the reason I look in the mirror for hours, wondering where I got my eyes, my nose, my hair. I devour the details. I study the pictures in the pile. I stare until my eyes are dry and my joints are creaking like I'm the Tin Man. I stare for hours, tracing their features with my finger, learning the curves of their faces, the slopes of their noses, the exact shades of their hair and eyes.

I get up, look in the mirror. I stare at myself for a good while. I touch the mirror, rip it off the wall, throw to the ground. Screw seven years of bad luck. I smash the glass when pieces aren't broken enough, when I can still see myself in the shards. I run from my room, the first picture crumbling in my fist.

I don't stop at my front door. I run, run, run, down the driveway, down the sidewalk, across a few streets, through a few front yards. I hop over a fence, pick up a rock. As hard as I can, I throw the rock at the back second-story window. A face appears, a tanned face, then it's gone again.

But two minutes later, Danny's at the back door, eyesrows pulled together. "Jackson?" He closes the door behind him. "What's wrong? What's going-?"

I shove the picture into his hand. "I don't look like them."

He knows immediately who they are and what the problem is. "Jackson..."

"Why don't I look like them?"

He looks away from the picture, touches my hand. "Don't cry."

"I'm not crying," I insist, but even as I say it I can feel the warm tears slipping down my hot face.

He sits down on the grass, staring up at me until I do, too. I lay back, staring up at the sky, wishing I was a bird because birds don't care who their parents are and all birds seem to look about the same. He stares at the picture almost as intently as I had and, for the longest time, we sit together in silence. "She's beautiful," he sighs, settling onto his back beside me. "Your mom."

I nod and I feel his hand slip into mine.

"And your dad's handsome," he gives me a smile. "I bet you'll look just like him in a few years. Except for the eyes." He holds up the picture so that I can see it, too. "You have your mom's eyes, Jackson."

And, as I look, I see it's true. Her eyes are the same color as mine. I smile. "I do."

"Blue, but a strange kind of blue that has a bit of green in it. Your dad probably drowned in her eyes, staring into them all the time. He would've been so happy to know that you had her eyes because he loved them so much and he loved her so much and he loved you so much."

I laugh. "Now you're just making things up."

He rolls onto his stomach, pushes himself up on his elbows. "No. I know it's true. How can someone not feel that way about eyes like that?" He grinned. "And you have your father's hair. The same blonde, don't you think? His might've been a little darker, though." He tugs on my hair. "That's probably why your mom married him- to have a blue-eyed, blonde-haired baby. Because, I mean, if your personaility is anything like his, then he had nothing going for him but his looks."

I rip up some grass and throw it at him.

We laugh and have a bit of a war with the grass, conversation starting up again on a completely different topic, and I'm thankful that Danny's with me.

It starts to get dark, but Danny's mother hasn't called him in and my parents have probably figured out where I am. I've all but forgotten why I came here, why I was so upset, when he slips the picture pack into my hand. We're still laying in the grass, and he closes his eyes as a breeze blows over us. He looks ready to fall asleep and I guess that somehow this has turned into a camp-out, minus the s'mores and tent.

His breathing evens out and I press the picture against my chest, wishing with all my heart I could make it part of my body, part of my heart. Despite Danny's reassurances, I let out a breath and whisper to the moon:

"When am I going to look like you?"

No one answers- of course no one answers, I'm talking to nothing -but Danny, who is not as asleep as I thought, slips his hand into mine.

I am not alone.

**Okay, well, yeah, that happened.**

**I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm actually a little saddened right now. **

**Anyway, I know it's not good enough and I know it's not the best apology, but it is all I have to give you, my loves! **

**I hope you liked it. :)**


	8. Protection and Hand Holding

**So, I got _On Fire_. **

**It played with my emotions.**

**So did last week's episode.**

**But I'm sneaking back on to write this because it's been nagging me.**

**I hope everyone likes it.**

**I don't own Teen Wolf. We all know that by now.**

Scott POV

Dad's car is in the driveway.

Mom's smile falls just a little and her hands tighten on the strap of her bag. Stiles jabbers on at a mile a minute, giving us an explanation of the food and the game and the seats and the people and the stadium and everything else he can think of as if none of the other people in the car came to the baseball game with us.

Stiles' dad glances at my mom as he parks, like he can tell she's nervous. We didn't tell Dad we were going anywhere.

Mom insists they come in, just for a bit. Stiles agrees, swears he left something here the last time he slept over, even though he probably just lost it. His dad holds his hand, which of course we're too old for, but Stiles doesn't pull away. His dad is a Deputy at the police department and he smiles wide when my father opens the door.

"Hello, Mr. McCall."

He doesn't know my dad well enough to call him by his first name.

"Hi." My dad doesn't smile back. His eyes are narrowed. He looks down at Stiles, boucning on his feet, sees their connected hands. He rolls his eys, looks away as if Stiles isn't worth his time. His eyes fix on my mother. He is angry. His jaw is clenched tight. "Melissa, where were you two?" He reaches out, holds my shoulder in what I guess is supposed to look like a fatherly, loving gesture, but his grip is too tight. It hurts. I grit my teeth.

Stiles notices. "Um, Mr. Scott's Dad? I think you're hurting him."

He lets go, ushers us into the house. "Scott, why don't you take your friend upstairs?"

There is nothing I'd rather do. I grab Stiles' arm, tug him away from his dad. We scramble up the stairs. I make to walk down the hallway, butStiles grabs me and pulls me down beside him, to watch through the bars of the railing. His parents never fight. He wants to watch. I do not. I don't want to watch my dad get angry at my mom again for something that was my fault. I wanted to go to the game. This is my fault.

"Where were you?"

"We went to a baseball game." My mom puts her bag down on the coffee table. Stiles' dad stands near the doorway, eyes on my father.

"You went to a baseball game," Dad repeats with a little laugh, like he can't believe it. He runs a hand through his hair. "You wento to a baseball game when we don't have enough money for cable. You took my son to a baseball game instead of saving the money for- oh, I don't know -a new car? You went to a baseball game instead of-" Dad's face is getting red. Spit is flying from his lips.

"Calm down," Stiles' dad orders, using his I-Am-A-Cop voice. "She didn't spend any money."

Mom steps forward. "They invited Scott to go to the game with them last week, remember? We decided it would be nice for him to go. But they had an extra ticket and so I went, too. I didn't think it was a big deal."

Dad huffs. He doesn't like that Mom went with us. "Why didn't the kid's mom go?"

Stiles flushes beside me and his dad stiffens. "My wife wasn't feeling up to it."

"Too tired of that hyperactive little bastard?"

Stiles' dad opens his mouth, moves forward to defend both his son and his wife but he doesn't get a chance to. Stiles stand up beside me- "HEY!" -and tumbles down the stairs. The embarrassment of tripping doesn't stop him and he stands in front of my father, hands on his hips, cheeks red, eyes wide. "My mom was too tired to come because she has cancer. And I'll have you know that I am not a little bastard. My mom says I'm different and that that's a good thing. But you're too dumb to see anything good, aren't you?"

Dad steps forward, but Stiles doesn't flinch. Mom grabs my friend's shoulders, pushes him behind her.

"Melissa," Stiles' dad says, "get your bag. You and Scott are staying with us for a few days." He steps around my mom, blocking Dad from the staircase. He has big shoulders in his jacket and he has a Deputy badge in his car. He has blue eyes and he stares my dad down, like a dog asserting his dominance.

"Who the hell do you think you are to tell my wife what to d-?"

But my dad doens't get to finish his question because Deputy Stilinski punches him across the face. I want to cheer. Stiles does. Mom covers her mouth with her hand. Dad's nose is bleeding. I smile. Stiles tilts his head, brown eyes on me, silently telling me to come down. I do. Deputy Stilinski grabs my mom's bag off the table and places his hand on his back, marching us out of the house. "In the car, boys," he says and helps my mom into the front seat.

We drive away. Stiles grins, flushed with excitement. "Dad, you were so cool!" he cheers, legs bouncing.

At Stiles' house, we're met at the door by Mrs. Stilinski. She looks tired and pale, but her eyes are concerned for us. She makes snadwhichs for us and coffee for the adults. She pats my mom's hand when tears slip down her cheeks. She tells us to go play. Stiles kisses her cheek.

My mom catches my hand and tells me she's sorry.

I don't know why she's sorry. It was my fault Dad got mad. Just like when he gets mad about my inhaler, how each puff costs money, how my asthma's all in my head.

Stiles and I share a bed that night, tucked in tight together. To Stiles, this is exciting, like he has a brother. To me, it's a comfort. He doesn't sleep right away, instead holding my hand in his own and using his flashlight to show me the difference in the colors of our skin. When he does fall asleep, he's still holding my hand and I have to tug away. Ten-year-old boys are much too old to hold hands with anyone.

I wiggle out of bed, down the hallway to the guest room where my mom is sleeping. Her dark hair is spread out on the pillow and I curl myself into her. She finally looks happy, finally peaceful, and I want her to always look like that.

I hold her hand.

I will protect her.

**No, seriously, though. There was a one-page flashback about Scott's dad in _On Fire _and it killed me.**

**I hope everyone liked this. I'm still getting back in the groove of FanFiction. **

**Reviews are love, hate, and everything in between! :)**


End file.
